The dead the snow hold back

you rub between your hands

--it’s glare you’re after


before it disappears

the way a cemetery fence

is painted, then overflows


--to get more white

you let this bathroom sink

open up in water


wrap the soap over and over

in that same wood

still burning --how else


can you bathe, the door

closed and follows you out

chased by flowers and the cold.







apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik